


Thanks for everything! xxJim

by thequeergiraffe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crack, That was a low-blow Jim, Yes desserts are that serious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-03 00:17:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/pseuds/thequeergiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He slid his fingers across the lid and licked his lips. Each morning, his assistant went to his favorite baker and acquired one small sliver of the most decadent cake in all of London. She came back to the manor, placed the cake in the case on his desk, and locked it away. Every day. Mycroft didn't trust himself to make the purchase, nor to even enter the bakery, for fear of over-consumption. Most evenings, she threw the cake in the garbage (or took it home; Mycroft didn't know or care). But not tonight. No, not tonight.<br/>---<br/>Crack-fic in which Mycroft is rather desperately struggling against his sweet tooth.</p><p>COMPLETE & PROOFED.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thanks for everything! xxJim

It was a crisp sort of afternoon, the kind that slips up under your coat and makes itself known, but Mycroft didn't mind. It was almost a comfort, having something on which he could focus his harried, overworked mind. Things were not quite going his way lately. Unfortunately, with Mycroft, that was both a personal annoyance and a matter of national security.

Mycroft heaved a sigh. This was nice, in a way. It was such a rarity for him to find himself alone, walking through a crowded London thoroughfare, the gray grit of the city clinging to his hems. Well..."alone", in a manner of speaking. His driver was idling some distance back, waiting for Mycroft to signal him. And he would, soon. But for the moment, all Mycroft wanted was a bit of silent anonymity in the thrust of a faceless crowd.

Around a street corner, then across a walk (the light telling him not to cross, naughty boy). Mycroft stuffed his hands in his pocket and glanced up. _Oh...my._  The shop before him took his breath away: a cupcake shop, the wide-paned windows trimmed with pink. In the display, confections sat piled like the treasures of a foreign conquest in the hull of a rocking ship. Mycroft could hardly keep his feet under him. With quickened breaths, he turned on his heels and fled down the street as fast as he could manage without breaking a sweat.

 _That was close_ , he thought uncomfortably, slowing his pace and adjusting his coat casually.  _Too close._ He shot a look back at his driver. The man's face was impassive, eyes shielded behind dark shades. Collecting himself, Mycroft turned a different corner...and his breath stopped in his throat. What part of town had he found himself in, that there could be a sweets shop two blocks away from a cupcake shop? Hands trembling, Mycroft gave the signal and stepped to the curb. In the car, Mycroft let his eyes fall closed. He leaned his head against the cool seat and called out to the driver: "Home, quickly."

\---

The car had barely pulled into the garage before Mycroft was slipping out of it and clicking up the steps and into the house. He disengaged his security at record speed, small drops of sweat beading at his temples.  _Quickly, quickly..._

It was mere moments before Mycroft was in his office, the door firmly shut, his fingers shaking. "God help me," he whispered, pulling out the key he so loathed to use. But it was too late. With almost religious reverence, he unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and withdrew a small metal case.

He slid his fingers across the lid and licked his lips. Each morning, his assistant went to his favorite baker and acquired one small sliver of the most decadent cake in all of London. She came back to the manor, placed the cake in the case on his desk, and locked it away. Every day. Mycroft didn't trust himself to make the purchase, nor to even enter the bakery, for fear of over-consumption. Most evenings, she threw the cake in the garbage (or took it home; Mycroft didn't know or care). But not tonight. No, not tonight.

Sitting slowly, his eyes never leaving the case, Mycroft drew a deep breath. He touched his fingers in slow, careful order to the number keys on the case. His highest weight; usually the code was enough to dissuade him, on nights like this. But again, not tonight. The case clicked open. His palms sweating now, Mycroft eased it open.

Inside the case were: three small black crumbs; a smear of icing; a plastic fork, filthy with cake remnants; and a minuscule envelope, cream in color, bearing a red seal. Mycroft stared at these items for a long moment before lifting the envelope gently from the case and, sliding his finger under the seal, opening it carefully. With some trepidation, he drew out a tiny white card bearing hand-inked letters.

 _Thanks (for everything!)_ , the note read.  _xxJim (PS: tell your brother I owe him a fall. And I never leave a debt unpaid. Toodle-oo!)_

The note slipped from Mycroft's fingers unseen, drifting down to rejoin the crumbs once more. His eyes unfocused, Mycroft muttered: "No. No!" He stood at once and dashed the case to the ground, his palms clenching into fists. "MORIARTYYYY!"


End file.
